The Plague & The Cure

My Plague essays are something that linger in my imagination still, and although I haven't had the ability to publish them in recent times, I refer to old posts and I appreciate the beauty and the bravery, the vulnerability and the insight. Each one staggers toward some sort of clarity in way that scares everyone else, and I often remember the circumstances in which I wrote them. I typed Desire Lines into my phone whilst in the basement of the Parisian club, Les Bains. When I finished it, I looked up to find a new group of strangers, poised to make friends with me. I wonder how many more friends I could have made had I stopped to look up once in a while.

I have attention span problems now. I can really see it when I try to write anything. I can't go a few lines before grabbing for my phone and checking things, researching, generally figuring out what the rest of the world is up to. When I read, I feel bad for not writing and when I write, I feel bad for not reading. My mind is a like failing hard disc, my heart is a tangled mess of cords. I sometimes revisit conversations in the knowledge that it's all extremely fragmented, and I grieve, knowing that between the two of us, I am the only one who bothers to remember. As such, I redirect my attention and make synthpop at a frantic pace, all sugary and hectic. I love it completely. I do it for my younger self. 

I often think Plague essays are essential, and they would cure me, but I wonder if my heart or mind is really up to it. I think of how I'd still give anything for his name on a screen. It's a slogan for my ultimate fucking cure, and I wonder if I could commission someone to catfish me and lure me into a state of artificial peace. I long for this ineffectual casualness, a dialogue which discharges the connection of all its electricity. It needn't be so electrified in my heart anymore. I want to see a cad for a cad, and to relieve myself of some grief. I've earned myself some relief after all this time.